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Here
today, gone tomorrowe
So why
was Clark County spelled wrong for 75 years?
Part
illiteracy, part human nature.
It all
started at a board of county commissioners meeting held on July 7, 1851.
A new
member was quickly scribbling the minutes and added an E to the end of
Clark, making it Clarke County.
When
the minutes were received at the territorial capital in Oregon City, the
person accepting them figured a commissioner would know how to spell his
own county, wouldn't he?
Instead
of questioning the change, the clerk changed Oregon City's records, and
the added-E belief spread.
The extra
letter made it onto all the official state, federal and private maps for
the next 75 years.
The error
wasn't corrected until Charles W. Hall, a state representative from Clarke
County, introduced a bill in 1925 that requested that the county return
to the original and proper spelling.
It passed
both houses and was signed by Gov. Roland H. Hartley on Dec. 23, 1925,
as a Christmas present to the "purists."
It wasn't
the first misspelling in the old west, Milton Bona, a Camas historian,
noted. "Milwaukie, Ore., was supposed to have been Milwaukee and Port
Townsend should have been Port Townshend."
Life
before spell-checker.
Cancelled,
due to lack of interest
Less
than 15,000 of these Fort Vancouver silver 50-cent pieces were sold during
a fund-raising event in August and September 1925. Despite the bust of
Dr. John McLoughlin on the front and Mount Hood, the Columbia River and
a trapper guarding McLoughlin's stockaded settlement adorning the back,
the coins only made it through the first of what was to be six 50,000-coin
runs.
The
San Francisco mint cancelled the others and melted the unsold coins because
of lack of interest.
Today,
a mint-condition coin could bring up to $1,200, said Steve Jones, owner
of Vancouver Rare Coins.
That
fad the automobile
Owners
of startled horses would threaten them. Police would harass them, and
an attempt to ban them from possessing one of those new-fangled contraptions
was almost passed by county commissioners in the early 1900s.
C.J.
Moss, the first car owner in town, remembers the objections to the automobile
well.
An operator
of a bicycle shop in the 600 block of Main Street, Moss opened a Buick
dealership and bought his first Model F in 1906. He sold five of the two-cylinder
cars within the first two months.
It wasn't
long before irate citizens, especially horse lovers, were up in arms.
"Whenever
a car was started up, you could see runaways in every direction," Moss
said. "But I don't think it was the noise as much as the appearance of
the cars. Horses often reacted the same way when they saw a bicycle coming."
Sometimes
the people driving the horses were more afraid than the animals, he said.
"One
time, four people on a double rig saw me coming up on the road. The driver
threw the reins over the horses' heads and all four people jumped," he
said.
Cars
and their owners were considered to be the dregs of society at the time.
"If you
parked your car in front of somebody's house, they'd have you arrested
for bringing disrepute to them," Moss added.
There
was political pressure from county officials, too. County commissioners
ruled that car owners using the ferry to cross the Columbia River would
have to have deckhands push, instead of drive, the vehicles on and off
the ferry.
"We soon
cured them of that," Moss said with a chuckle. "Drivers would set their
brakes and the let the deckhands push their damn fool heads off."
The city
police also joined in the harassment.
Driving
downtown, scattering horses everywhere, Thomas P. Clarke, superintendent
of the School for the Deaf parked his car in front of a downtown business.
While he was inside doing some shopping, police gave him a ticket for
not having his vehicle tied to a hitching post.
An infuriated
Clarke drove into town the next day, parked right next to the police station
and threw a large weight with a rope attached to his bumper on the ground.
He walked off and did his shopping.
They
went after Moss, too.
While
scooting up a rut-lined street, he was hailed by the city's one and only
policeman, Al Bateman, who was on a bicycle. The officer gave him a ticket
for speeding.
Moss
took the ticket to court and beat it on the grounds that the law didn't
mention automobiles.
Finally,
the people of Vancouver had had enough. They pressured the city council
to pass an ordinance that would ban autos from the streets.
Fortunately
for subsequent motorists, "the editor of The Columbian went down there
and talked them out of it," Moss said.
After
their place in Vancouver's future was assured, the auto's popularity boomed
even though each sale had to be cash.
"We
couldn't get anybody to finance them," Moss said. "One banker told me
the car was a rich man's plaything, which would never amount to anything.
Later, I sold him three Buicks."
 Retail
price, without a top or windshield, was $1,500, and because no spare parts
were available, early car dealers had to maintain elaborate machine shops
for repairs.
No gas
stations existed either.
"We
had to go to the drug store and buy fuel in five-gallon cans at 25 cents
per gallon."
Rough
roads also caused problems for motorists. Tires costing $25 to $30 were
guaranteed for 3,500 miles, but never lasted that long, Moss said.
"Nobody
ever went on a trip without carrying a box of spare inner tubes in the
back," he said.
Causing
even more confusion, the rims of the wooden wheels had six bolts on them
that looked just like the inner tube valve stem.
"I don't
know how many people I saw with an air hose attached to one of those bolts,"
Moss said, "pumping their heads off."
The
time toads saved the world
 CAMAS
-- Contrary to the image and playground rumors, earwigs don't climb into
ears (or wigs for that matter) to feast on human brains.
Kind
of creepy and squiggly but otherwise harmless, the vegetarian bugs did
find their way into the thoughts of Clark County residents in the early
1920s though, forming a mass hysteria unequalled in our pest history.
Dr. A.C.
Brown, a local veterinary surgeon at the time, caught eye of a couple
squirmers and gave earliest credibility to the scare when he boldly proclaimed
in the paper, "Unless immediate steps are taken to exterminate the pest,
the entire county will within a short time be completely at the mercy
of the insect."
Infestation
occurred first in Camas, which residents blamed on Portland. They figured
the bugs were brought across the I-5 Bridge in vegetable crates.By early
July, Camas residents had banded together "to fight the earwig pest that
is menacing all parts of the city," The Columbian reported.
Soon,
the earwig army marched west to East Mill Plain and R.B. Phipps, the district
horticultural inspector, announced that Vancouver had been invaded.
Poison
bait didn't work. A proposed bounty of 50 cents per pint failed. So the
state formed the Bureau of Earwig Control.
Among
its first actions was the importation of 6,000 toads, who proceeded to
eat 40,000 earwigs in a park to the north.
The traveling
toads nearly eliminated the poor grass-munching beasties in our area (although
today a few million survivors can still be found) and the world remained
safe for humanity.
Maybe
they knew about the smell
CAMAS
Washougal was the original site promoters wanted for the paper mill.
After
haggling and haggling with city officials over the price of land, they
said forget it' and bought property a few miles west in the area that
would become Camas. This is recounted by Sarah F. McLeod, one of the original
settlers of the area, in a 1923 edition of the Clark County Sun.
Residents
of Washougal have wondered since if it made any sense to hold out for
the extra money.
Red
light green light
 Both
gambling and prostitution were flourishing pastimes on the north banks
of the Columbia River around the turn of the century.
Many
business were charged with operating card games, dice games and slot machines,
and the regularity with which many of the names appear in the records
suggest that gambling fines were actually an early type of licensing.
Prostitution
was also a common offense in those days. It was called by other names
such as lewdness, vagrancy and disorderly conduct, but a prostitute by
any other name still performs the same tricks. Fines ranged from $2.40
to $20.
In 1905,
a movement by city police to clean up the brothels and the taverns had
some effect.
But at
least one lady of the night was still in business in 1912. A police report
from that year reads:
"Arrested
two soldiers for detaining M.M. (a well-known prostitute) so she could
not make the last ferry home."
How
about Sawdust Acres
Developer
Bob Cox assured everyone including a Columbian reporter that the 100-foot
high, 200-year-old oak tree in the middle of Oak Tree Estates was there
to stay.
He cut
the namesake down less than a month later.
Last
November, citizens mounted a protest about Cox's hypocrisy with candlelight
vigils and a publicity campaign. Neither worked.
On Nov.
7, tree cutters came. The neighbors attempt to block the cutters failed.
"We
had to get the Sheriff's Department out there to get them in line," Cox
said. "No doubt it was a nice tree. We probably feel as bad as they do."
Cox blamed
business on the decision.
"Part
of the lot drops off in the back," he said. "(Keeping the tree) would
have made it virtually unbuildable.
"It
was in the way to build a house on a lot we valued at $50,000," he continued.
"I didn't feel like I wanted to donate $50,000 for them to have a tree
to look at."
Tapped
out
Missing
one important ingredient, Vancouver had to postpone its celebration of
Prohibition's end in 1933.
There
was no beer.
Licenses
to serve were granted, but most places hadn't received a drop by the time
the party was to begin.
Seattle,
Tacoma and a few other points had successful get-togethers, The Columbian
reported. For the most part, though, the jubilation was private and brief.
Longview,
Kelso and Vancouver "hoped rather faintly" for beer from Portland, which
had a hard enough time trying to supply Oregon.
 The
chaining judge
CAMAS
-- Drunken driving laws are tough now. Not nearly as brutal as E.C. Duncan's
justice, though.
In 1931
Camas, Justice Duncan vowed to sentence all drunken drivers to 15 days
in the ball and chain.
The
first one to come before him got off easy. When police dug the ancient
device out of storage, the locks on the shackles were rusted beyond use.
A new
lock was ordered.
Then
Camas police captured a 22-year-old Vancouver man who was celebrating
Veterans Day with a wild, inebriated drive through the Oak Park area.
His ride ended when he crashed into a house: He was sentenced to the ball
and chain.
For the
next 15 days, the man swept Camas streets while carrying or dragging the
25-pound iron ball.
Any
excuse for a get together
Vancouver
was in a holiday mood on July 11, 1890, Mrs. W.A. Schwarz, a resident
at the time, said.
The occasion:
Clark County's first hanging.
People
gathered from all over these parts to see Edward Gallagher, 25, swing
from the gallows for murder.
No one
knew exactly how to make a hangman's knot, since it was the first time
and all, so they searched the county until one could be found.
Following
a countywide search, a storekeeper was located who could twist a rope
into the knot, and the event could begin.
Schwarz
said the gallows were erected near the main entrance of the courthouse,
and many people turned out.
After
the hanging, the rope was cut up into pieces, which were distributed as
souvenirs.
The
most recent local lynch mob gathered in an Orchards-area neighborhood
in June 1988.
A stray
dog bit a child on the nose and a group of about 20 joined forces to string
up the culprit.
"Someone
came running toward me yelling, He's hanging the dog,' " Deputy Bob Eberly
reported.
"As
I ran toward the people, I observed Gary Waldrupe stringing a piece of
rope through a beam of the carport in front of his house. There was a
small dog tied to this piece of rope. When Gary saw me, he took down the
rope."
After
about 30 minutes, Waldrupe calmed down, according to reports.
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